


Beneath your nails

by himboking



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Bottom Dennis Reynolds, Choking, Dissociation, Fat Mac McDonald, Feeding Kink, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, ptsd dennis reynolds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23408116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himboking/pseuds/himboking
Summary: an absolute mess of unhealthy behavior, two men just throwing themselves at eachother like panes of glass. i'm having a bad time. yes this is kinktown but baby i'm writing abt traumayou do what you gotta do to reclaim your body after sw. to feel safe again. to feel real.tw for bad self harm and bad everything
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Beneath your nails

5:09 AM

Dennis' head tips ever so slightly as the time washed over him. Two hours. He blinks. Not bad.

His hands are covered in blood.

Waves are pulsing through his body.

His back hurts.

He hasn't moved.

Blinks again.

He's been staring.

The rest of him slowly comes into focus as his eyes narrow.

More blood.

Right.

3 hours.

He stretches his neck.

His legs were warm. Incredibly so.

He closes his eyes, slowly.

The glow.

Of course.

He wasn't there. 

That was fine.

He was here now. Warm.

Dennis' eyes snap open suddenly-- memories that were not his flash briefly in his mind, and it didn't happen.

That is not his to remember.

No one could see him now.

His gaze ever so slightly refocuses. He's still feeling the waves. It's good.

A moment later he's in bed.

His hands are clean save for his fingernails, still outlined in blood.

His legs.

Still bloody.  
  
Very.

Dried though.

'Oh.

Masturbating.

Masturbating?

An amount of time flashed in his mind that held absolutely no significance in his life.

Shock still passed over him.

Memories that meant nothing to him appeared briefly in his mind.

He focused on the blood.

A moment later they're open again.

Not all of them.

A light metal weight makes itself known in his hand.

More are opened.

More blood flows.

Then more.

As soon as they began the weight disappeared just as quickly.

He'll know where he put it later. But not now.

He is twitching.

This was his body.

More memories. Involuntary. Unimportant. 

He can't have sex until they're healed.

No one has to see him.

His body.

One hand still gets him off.

The other one is bloody. Again. Fresh. Dripping.

He's perplexed but his pace quickens nonetheless.

No one can see his body like this. 

He'd have to wash his hands again.

Safe.

Did he wash his hands?

Or shower?

He didn't shower.

Too much dried blood.

Too much blood.

Not that that had anything to do with him.

Not that this was happening to him.

The memories.

They're longer but that isn't a part of his narrative.

You never forget the taste of blood.

He feels it.

Dennis Reynolds has not felt it in.

A time period not relevant to his experience.

The sex does nothing.

Not a trace of feeling.

Hated it.

Loved it.

Obviously.

Performed successfully.

Skilled.

Golden.

Enviable.

Talented.

Of course he felt something those times.

Not like this.

But better, obviously. 

It didn't matter.

The way it felt now.

Invigorating.

Unremarkable.

This was his body.

Unimportant, of course.

He came but probably because he thought of sex, obviously.

He was a sex man.

With women.

He thought of a woman.

The blood wasn't necessary.

What blood? That's barely a scratch.

He was safe again.

He'd miss having sex with women. Of course.

Not his memories. Not his, Not his

Who doesn't love a little blood?

It's nothing.

Obviously.

None of it was anything.

It's not hurting anyone.

He's not hurting anyone.

A moment later he's in front of the mirror.

He's cleaned up now. Though there's still red in the outlines of his nails.

Caked under them too. Barely noticeable. His nails are still polished-- the lightest pink coat to hide the yellow tinge of his nails. 

3 top coats. Just to make them look healthy. You can tell a lot about a person from their nails.

His were perfectly manicured, perfectly sharpened, they were the nails of a perfect man. Minus a few of them, the ones perfectly imperfectly nicked.  
  
Easier to draw blood. He made often use of it. He puts concealer over the scars on his hands and arms, of course.

First impressions are all about the hands. The delicate skin. The nails. It was a performance. The slight tinge of blush he adds back to his knuckles.

The hollows he shaded with the slightest bits of blue.

His hands are perfect because he makes them so. His nails are perfect because he is. 

He hated the way most men's nails looked. Charlies for example. Constantly rimmed in dirt, or whatever grime he'd been playing in. Bit at. Disgusting. 

You can tell Franks an untrustworthy scumbag from his. Too short. Uneven. Yellowy brown. Grimy.

Of course the rest of him gives him away first, but his nails show his essence.

Dee can never maintain a manicure for long. It's rare that her nail polish isn't cracked, chunks always missing. The nails she bites are typically scratched off entirely. 

Her nails are neurotic, paranoid little signs of how long it's been since she last had her life barely together.

When she thinks things are going well with men she manages to keep up, but the vibrant routine always quickly ends. 

If you can't tell she's been dumped from her drinking you can always tell from the polish she quickly scratches off.

Mac tries, because he knows it's important to Dennis.

For the most part his nails remain wellcut and clean.

He bites his nails but only when he's hiding something.

People are easy like that. 

What are his nails saying right now?

Perhaps an infection. A cut on his hand. His finger.

He didn't want to wash it off entirely.

He liked the momento.

So instead he wrapped a thick bandage around his finger.

He leaves his legs uncovered. The dried blood would be good enough. 

He pulled on fresh clothes, ignoring-- no, relishing the pain as his tight jeans rubbed against his work.

He returns to his room to grab the mess of tissues he'd left beside the bed.

He separated two of them and placed them carefully into the trash.

He'd gotten a cut on his finger. Just that. Nothing more.

He flushed the rest of the bloody tissues down the toilet.

There was blood, not a lot, but it dripped down his hand. He got blood on the other hand while trying to clean it up. 

That's why there's blood on his nails-- not that anyone in the bar would be observant enough to notice.

What did it?

A papercut?

Too obvious. 

He was cooking.

Slipped with the knife.

A moment later he's in front of the fridge.

There's nothing to cut. He wasn't at the bar today.

Fuck.

Opening a package?

No package.

Mac wasn't home yet. He had time.

He'd go to the store.

The trip didn't take long. It specifically took no time at all. Dennis blinked and he was home again, food besides him.

His legs were burning the entire time, he knew that because it was the only thing he could focus on.

Once inside he began cutting up an array of vegetables. Tomatoes. Cauliflower. Broccoli. Onion. Carrots. Pineapple. Cilantro. 

He was nearly done scrambling 6 eggs when he realized he was still holding onto the knife.

The placement on the bandage wasn't right.

He removed it and grabbed another tomato.

He should've put it on his hand. 

He wouldn't have cut himself there. 

It wasn't realistic, wasn't believable. That was close. That could've gotten him caught. 

It would've been on his hand, and his finger wouldn't bleed as much, it wouldn't be enough.

Would this be enough?

He might as well make sure.

A second passes.

A few more.

Blood is dripping down his hand again.

A few drips fall onto the half cut tomato.

He threw it away and moved into the bathroom.

He took out the bloody tissues he threw into the trash and flushed them.

Couldn't have two sets.

He stood over the sink and balled his fist, nails digging in where the blood was pooling.

He had underestimated the amount of blood.

He grabbed his damaged hand in his clean one, making the movements for as if he was trying to clean it up. 

Perfectly believable. 

His mind shifted into static as he gently rubbed his hands together beneath the faucet.

He turned the water on ever so slightly, letting the smallest stream escape to mix with his blood.

It dripped and spattered over the white ceramic, and it does something for him.

The splatter pattern.

An unimportant amount of time passes until Dennis suddenly breaks through the static.

Mac'll be home soon. He's got to finish. 

He actually washed the blood from his hands, once again leaving his nail beds unscrubbed. The blood was building up. It was more obvious now. He'd have to stop letting it dry.

He bandaged his cut, which was arguably wide enough for stitches.

That thought made him laugh almost. It was an effort he didn't care to make.

He returned to the kitchen. He'd remembered to finish the eggs before, apparently.

He went to work again, taking the mass amount of leftover rice in the fridge onto the pan.

Mac had made it for himself, technically. But he doubted the man would complain. Not like Dennis wanted to eat any. 

Sesame oil. Some avocado oil (shoplifted. Of course. He's refined, not rich)

He adds in the vegetables and egg.

Mac would complain about the variety, but he'll go batshit for the pineapple. He eats whatever Dennis makes, anyway.

When the front door opens and closes Dennis doesn't hear a greeting.

When Mac walks into the kitchen he's slow, unsure.

"You're cooking." His voice. Careful. 

"Am I?" Dennis replied flatly. He hated when Mac tries to be delicate, or whatever he's doing.

"So..." He sat down at the kitchen table.

"So? Did you hit your head at Paddys or something?"

"Well...uh. You know..." Suddenly he focussed on Dennis' hand. "Dennis!"

And like that he's up again, running at him.

"Bro." He says.

"Small cooking mishap." Dennis shrugs.

Something that looked a lot like realization spread across Macs face.

"I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"You did this last time, too." Mac crossed his arms.

"Last time?"

"Don't play dumb with me. I know you."

"I have literally no idea what you're talking about, Mac."

"You're cooking." He repeated.

"So?" 

Mac sighed, frustrated. "You only cook for two reasons."

Dennis remained expressionless.

"You only cook when you wanna bang, or when you..." He looked down at Dennis' hands. His nails.

"Don't say it."

"Tell me I'm wrong."

Dennis is silent.

"You wanna bang, right?"

Admittedly, he did. His sex drive was in overdrive after everything-- not everything. Obviously. It's unrelated.

But Mac couldn't see his body right now.

"I do not."

Macs face fell. He looked worried, which Made Dennis sick.

"Dennis."

"Can't I just. Be cooking."

"Bro I know you. Did it happen?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Did you do it again?"

"Mac, I don't know what you are going on about."

"Yes you do."

Dennis shrugged, face still emotionless. 

Mac got up.

"Tell me you didn't."

Silence.

Mac moved closer.

"Dennis."

"You sure you didn't hit your head--" Dennis' voice raised in pain as Mac swooped down and punched his leg.

"What the fuck, man?" Dennis exclaimed, pushing Mac away.

Mac looked mad, now. He stared intently at his leg.

A cold feeling took over him. He could feel it. 

Mac could see it.

Mac turned around and slammed his fist onto the kitchen table.

"Dennis, what the fuck!"

"I don't know what you're throwing a tantrum about."

"Shut the fuck up, Dennis, I can fucking. You know I can see it. You fucking never wear bandages."

Static.

"I fucking knew it. You always do this."

The food was going to burn. He turned his attention back to the food.

"I put pineapple in the fried rice." His voice was flat. 

Mac had sat down at the table again. "Den..."

"I know you like it. I added some spinach. Extra sesame oil."

"Why couldn't you have just wanted to bang, man. How'd this happen again?"

"If banging you will make you shut up about this, then by all means."

Mac hesitated for a moment, then, "We can't when you're...like this."

"What, scared of a little blood?"

Mac sighed.

"Or does it just disgust you that much."

"It's not healthy."

"Who gives a shit. We are two adults. You enjoy it."

"Not like this."

"I'll feed you."

Macs face immediately turnt bright red.  
  
"You know I don't want any of this."

Dennis was beside him now.

"I don't want to hurt you." Mac said slowly. 

"Yeah you do." He whispered into his ear, "Come on, Baby boy."

"Dennis." 

He was kissing his neck now.

Mac wasn't strong enough. They both knew that.

Dennis' lips found his ear and it was the exact moment Mac gave in, melted into him.

It was easy.

It always was.

"The rice." He mumbles after a second. His voice is small. Unsure. 

Dennis hums as he grabs the serving bowl and a spoon.

It started happening when Mac first started losing weight.

He'd caught Mac in the act. Pizza in one hand. Cock in the other.

Dennis' rage overtook him and what he intended to be a punishment for Macs gluttony made the other man cum harder than he'd ever seen before.

It was pathetic.

But useful.

Food had already been an easy way to control Mac, but food and sex? He could make him do anything.

Halfway through the bowl Mac begins reaching for himself-- Dennis, of course, hits his hand away.

"You're not done."

Mac let out a mixture of a moan and a whine. Pathetic.

But worth it, for what comes next.

Minus a few words of encouragement and insults here and there, Dennis' mind remained mostly blank.

The spoon scraped against the empty bowl and with that Dennis was back in his body.

Mac placed a hand on his stomach, out of breath, "Harder than it used to be."

"You're out of practice."

Mac pulled the other man on top of him, pulling him into a kiss.

Dennis hated the taste, although it wasn't the worst, compared to Macs usual diet.

"You're a good cook." Mac was still blushing.

Dennis kissed him again, leaning onto the other man's stomach. He knew it hurt. He knew he liked it.

As their kiss deepened, Macs hand snaked around Dennis' head. He pulled his hair. Dennis moaned.

"Your room." Mac muttered, breaking them apart.

Dennis smirked. Mac knew what to do. What he wanted.

He pushed Dennis back onto the bed, climbing ontop of him.

They usually didn't kiss.

They were again, and Mac was back to pulling his hair, occasionally moving down to scratch his neck.  
  
"Your shirt." 

Dennis complied.

After throwing his shirt back, Mac grabbed Dennis and roughly pulled him on top of him.

"God you weigh nothing."

Dennis pushed himself harder onto Mac, who moaned from the increased pressure.

"Fuck me up." Dennis whispered before leaning down to suck on Macs neck.

He felt Macs hands move down his back, hesitating. He gently bit down and rubbed onto him.

Mac responded accordingly, moaning as he begun scratching at Dennis' back.

It wasn't hard enough, so Dennis moved one hand to Macs pants, beginning to gently rub hi through the fabric.

Mac scratched harder, but still not enough. He struggled to unbutton Macs pants, eventually successfully peeling them halfway down.

"Pants fucking tight enough?"

Mac crashed their lips back together at that, and Dennis began getting to work. Mac immediately got louder, finally scratching enough on Dennis' back to draw blood.

Eventually Mac moves to unbutton Dennis’ pants, who pushes them down just enough for his cock to be free.

If Mac see's his legs he doesn't acknowledge them. 

They're still burning. The pain mixes perfectly with the pleasure. 

"Tie me up."

Mac moves to open up the top drawer of Dennis' nightstand, pulling out a thin, rough rope.

He moves back, sitting on Dennis to hold him down. Dennis lifts his hands above his head, and Mac dutifully ties the knot Dennis taught him however long ago.

"Tighter."

He tightens it as much as he can before moving down and lifting Dennis' legs up. He'd also grabbed lube. Smart.

A moment later he is in him, roughly, pace quickening. It hurts like it's supposed to.

Dennis notices some of his cuts are opening. He can feel the blood leaking through the fabric.

Another moment and Mac is choking him. He must've asked, or maybe he just knew. 

He doesn't register what he chokes out until Mac slaps him. Twice.

"That the best you can do?"

Mac is choking him again, fucking him roughly.

Dennis thinks of earlier, of his hands covered in blood. The knife. Dripping. The splatter. His legs are burning. 

Mac undoubtedly is thinking about Dennis feeding him.

They both cum.

Mac collapses beside him before remembering to untie his hands.

His hands are numb, colorless. His wrists are red. His face stings. His neck hurts. His legs burn.

Every part of him is in pain and he feels the glow again.

Mac is staring at his legs.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"This can't keep happening."

"Stomachache?"

"That's not what I mean."

Dennis says nothing.

"This thing where you relapse? And want to fuck after?"

"Shut up."

"It's weird--"

"Because you getting your dick hard over me feeding you is perfectly normal--"

"That's not relevant."

"We both got what we wanted."

"It feels like it's getting more extreme. Last time it was the choking and now the slapping."

"I'm not forcing you."

"But what's next, Dennis? I saw you. One time. After. And I didn't say anything then but now it feels like you're trying to build up to that."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Mac shifted uncomfortably, "The blood thing."

"There's no blood thing."

"I saw you Dennis. And I see the way you look at...them."

Silence.

Dennis pulled up his pants.

“You gotta clean yourself up, man.”

Dennis’ nostrils flared.

“Please just disinfect them this time. It’s not safe.”

“This is none of your business.”

“It’s my business because you make it my business, Dennis!”  
  
Silence. Again.

“I’m not doing this again. I can’t encourage this.”

“Encourage what?” Dennis asked flatly.

“Stop playing this game.” Mac sighs, “I’m not fucking you after you cut yourself anymore. I’m done being another tool that you use to hurt yourself with.”

Silence.

“It’s not healthy. You gotta stop.”

“Oh it’s not healthy? The man who jacks it to gorging himself is telling me what’s healthy? Is cramming thousands of calories down your throat your idea of good health? I’m not the crazy one.”

“I didn’t call you crazy, Dennis.”

“You might as well.”

“I shouldn’t have to explain the difference between me eating and you cutting yourself.“

“Stop saying it.” 

“What? Cutting yourself?”

“Stop it, Mac.”

“I saw you! Covered in blood. I thought you killed someone. I don’t know which is worse.”

Dennis narrowed his eyes.

“It’d almost be better if it was someone else’s blood. I mean then at least it’s just...I don’t know man...It scared me.”

“You’d rather me be a murderer.”

“At least that would make sense! I don’t understand this, Dennis."

"I'm sorry it's so hard for you."

"Dennis."

"If you're done so am I." His voice raises slightly.

"Good!"

"I don't want to see you stuffing your face around the apartment then."

"Thats--"

"Disgusting. While we're being honest with each other, I'm tired of seeing your little ritual play out over and over again."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"How you keep fucking gorging yourself before you masturbate. You always binge before getting off, and you never hide it. Is that apart of it? Me seeing it? Does that get you going?"

"Was me seeing your cuts apart of it?"

"You shut your fucking mouth."

"You like showing me your work?"

"Mac I will fucking dismember you."

"Oh will you? Or are you just going to go cut yourself again?"

Dennis' fist slammed suddenly into the wall, breaking apart the drywall.

Mac looked shocked, but barely. 

"Maybe I fucking will." A smirk appeared on his face the moment he saw Macs drop.

"Do I need to drive you to a hospital?"

Dennis laughed. "Good fucking luck."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Dennis swiftly turned around and went into his room, promptly slamming and locking the door.

When they were younger Mac might've tried breaking down his door.

Back when this was rare.

**Author's Note:**

> this has arguably insane pacing because i am an insane person. my relationship with writing this fic is that of your relationship with the broken glass u just shattered with ur now incredibly bloody fist. anyway guess what disorder im writing dennis with besides ptsd lol


End file.
